


Here Comes the Rain

by TeaRex



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pre-Slash, ankle porn, country folk aren't ready for their shenanigans, farmer!qui-gon, gentlement!obi-wan, yea you heard me right - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24468991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/pseuds/TeaRex
Summary: Circa early 1900’s. To escape dreary London and reinvigorate his writer's muse, Obi-Wan Kenobi moves to the countryside and is quickly acquainted with the neighbouring farmer, Qui-Gon Jinn. It’s all the right elements for Austenian inspired shenanigans.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 51
Collections: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan May the Fourth be With You Prompt Meme





	Here Comes the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tessiete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/gifts).



> Written for QuiObi May the Fourth be with you prompt meme. Prompt: Obi-Wan is carried bridal style - Because Tess only wants the best for her bean.
> 
> A huge shout out to [Saner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside) who is a phenomenal beta, and who's running commentary gave me LIFE!
> 
> Title inspired by Eurythmics song of the same name.

Before the threshold of promise, Obi-Wan absorbs the afternoon sun, marveling at the splendor of his happy situation. He has much to be thankful for, so much to attribute to the happiness of his newfound life. And oddly the prospect of completing formal business in town doesn’t dampen his mood.

Dressed in a modest three piece suit and bowler hat, he takes to the dirt road with felicity, an enthusiast for any excuse for a walk. And while the scenery remained unchanged, he found himself repeatedly engaged in the appreciation of the stonemason craftsmanship of the moss grown dry stone walls, the seasonal foliage ever lush and viridescent, and the fruits of labour of the farmers’ pastures spanning miles upon miles.

Yes, with such inspiration that awaited outside his quaint cottage, some days he had difficulty tying himself before his typewriter and means of income. Moving to the country was the means to reinvigorate his passion for writing, instead he occupied many hours taming his wild garden, unkempt in years of desuetude; to the care and practice of poultry husbandry of his recently adopted hens, whose personalities rivaled his own.

Along the thoroughfare into town it was commonplace to pass locals commuting to and fro. Obi-Wan was often the recipient of curious, and at times, obnoxious attention. He took it as his due, as a newcomer to the area - and as country manners would dictate, as it would exceed quite some time before he was considered otherwise. He held to the belief of first impressions and was the exemplar of gentlemanly behaviour, exchanging warm salutations, his smile radiant and charming. Many a time his mother had commented that equipped with his smile and cordial nature, he could disarm the English Cabinet. While her compliments were exaggerated in his opinion, he was no fool of the effects of what a well armed smile could do. He might soon be the envy of every bachelor in the district, and quite frankly, of married men, too. A shame however, for the wistful attention that followed his passing was regrettably unrequited.

With business near concluded, Obi-Wan discovers that he has exceeded the estimated time of his visit and is now pressed to keep another appointment. It has become a weekly ritual between himself and the neighbouring farmer, Mister Qui-Gon Jinn, to take supper and read from a novel of his choosing. Mister Jinn had insisted it be selected from Obi-Wan’s published work, and despite the inherent embarrassment of reading from one’s own work for pleasure, Obi-Wan had conceded to the farmers wishes. It was but a small repayment for the assistance the man continued to provide around Obi-Wan’s small acreage.

Swift handshakes were traded, and departing with a dinner invitation at the social club at an undisclosed date, he returned to the worn road, a subtle haste in his stride.

Perturbation guides Obi-Wan to procure a silver pocket watch from his breast pocket which reinforces the late hour. He decides then to cut through the farmlands. The cross country detour would conveniently reduce the travel time by half, but in the process sacrifice his good shoes. A price he is willing to pay. When he planned for such off-beaten adventures, leather boots were preferable and durable for scampering about the countryside. He had learned that quickly.

While spurred by urgency, a teeth bared smile flatters his fair features, exhilaration intoxicating his blood in a surge of galloping strides. The exhibition might be considered a matter of questionable propriety, but with only four legged beasts who cared not for the shenanigans of the young man, he was free to bound and skip and laugh aloud as he pleased. In these moments he couldn’t imagine returning to London. To surrender this newfound freedom.

He hops over and squeezes through many a fence, at first conscientious of the preservation of his suit in lieu of the ruined dress shoes. A blueberry bush catches the tailored coat as he barrels past but the small tear won’t be found until the following day. And in another moment he almost loses his hat as he tears down a hill, chasing the wind.

All the while, he casts an observing eye to the brooding clouds collecting across the valley. Rain will visit this evening, perhaps sooner, but Obi-Wan is self-assured, paying no heed to the forecast for he will be safe indoors well before they empty upon the land.

At the crest of a large paddock, he descends the incline, pace quickening. But with one misplaced foot, he's sent sprawling to the ground, pain shooting up his leg. _What the devil_ \- Orientating himself, he spares a vain thought that thankfully there was not a soul to witness the undignified tumble. His second thought is that his ankle bloody hurts.

He rolls over to sit, groaning out of self-pity more than pain. Grass stains and mud smear his clothes, and somewhere the bowler hat has caught the wind and spiralled off in his distraction. Grimacing, he flexes the injured ankle and recoils as a sharp pain protests the movement. Sprained, he suspects and hopes it is only that. The culprit as he quickly identifies is a rabbit burrow, camouflaged and malicious.

“Damnable, fluffy rodents,” he mutters.

However, undeterred and underestimating the extent of the setback, Obi-Wan bridles his fortitude and prepares to resume the journey home.

“Come on, old boy,” he encourages, hap-hazardously rising to balance on the uninjured foot.

He sways, finding his balance on the incline, lamely resting the sprained foot with care. Before he attempts to weight-bear he knows the outcome, but determination and eagerness won’t persuade him otherwise.

Tentatively, the resting foot is outstretched and weight marginally distributed only for Obi-Wan to wince and withdraw from the attempt. He gazes into the distance, envisioning his destination. The sweet little cottage called home but a few miles away. He tries again, gritting his teeth against the pain only to cry out, knees buckling.

Defeated he drops to the ground, rationalising that perhaps rest will benefit him. Begrudgingly, he retracts the prideful notion of being spared the embarrassment brought on by the accident, wishing someone had witnessed it. The silver pocket watch is withdrawn from its hiding spot again and provides no comfort, noting he was due home now. His visitor no doubt waiting and questioning his whereabouts.

A soft apology carries on to the wind.

As the minutes draw longer and the swelling and pain intensifies, Obi-Wan begins to fashion desperate designs to conclude the short although troublesome trek. He could wait and hope that someone might pass-by but the likelihood in the vastness of the estate was improbable. There was a prettyish woodland boarding the paddock and the prospect of finding a sturdy branch that could improvise as a crutch comes as a promising thought. However, crossing the field to the tree-line was a considerable undertaking in itself, especially that he couldn’t hope to hop let alone walk. To his horror the concept of crawling is not discarded immediately. He weighs the idea but determines it’s fair too undignified. At least for now.

Resigned to silent brooding, Obi-Wan watches with growing apprehension as the nimbus clouds, seemingly unthreatening some time before, advance closer. A grey veil shadows the valley, befalling the sentinel fells and great lakes. The wind rustles the trees, the blades of grass, petrichor permeating the air with premonition.

And then the rain comes, a swift curtain of replenishment that sweeps across the land. In a futile effort, Obi-Wan shields himself beneath his jacket.

“Brilliant,” he grouses.

The onset of a bone chilling shiver wracks his body, the jacket achieving very little. Obi-Wan draws his knees closer, arms hugging his chest in a bid to preserve what warmth can be retained. On a wry note, the rain soothes the persisting throb of his ankle, reduced to a dull ache. He hated that somehow he found the silver lining of the situation.

But as the wind picks up and the afternoon sky darkens, the severity of the situation is more apparent. If he doesn’t find shelter he fears he will succumb to the elements. It was a matter of survival, and few things rivalled the preservation of life. With that incentive, Obi-Wan rises to his feet again, grim resolve combating the frozen rain.

His efforts are clumsy and slow, interchanging between hoping and bearing as little weight as tolerated on the maimed foot. The endeavour is made increasingly more difficult than before, his muddy shoes skating on the slippery grass and made all the more onerous by the hill’s descent. He slips more than once and curses each time. On the third fall he knows he has exceeded his ankle’s limitations and potentially inflicted more damage upon the angry foot.

The rain comes down harder now.

Obi-Wan always considered himself an optimist, often described as being detrimentally optimistic, and that one day he would be rendered gravely disappointed. And he feels that very optimism evaporating from his core, the rain sizzling the embers of hope. His shudders and splutters, and a darkening thought clouds the innermost corner of his mind. Yet defiance burns still. He’s not prepared to resign himself, not yet, not when...

Through the bleak deluge, he glimpses a blurred silhouette encroaching. He watches with suspicion, mistaking it for a cow or horse. But as the figure trudges closer, quickening as it nears, his heart ignites at the sight.

“Master Kenobi.” Qui-Gon Jinn drops at the young man's side, worry etched into the lines of his face. _Christ_ , Obi-Wan can scarcely believe it. Qui-Gon’s eyes sweep Obi-Wan’s body, narrow and severe. “What happened?”

“My ankle,” Obi-Wan chatters, quickened breaths hazing the air. Qui-Gon hastens to remove his oil trench coat and wrap it about Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

“Can you stand?” Obi-Wan nods and takes an offered hand and is hoisted to his feet.

“What are you-"

Before he can question the farmer of his intentions, Qui-Gon sweeps him up into strong arms. Mortification doesn’t begin to describe the overwhelming response to being carried as if he were some damsel. A wedded bride! Thankfully he's spared the embarrassment of vocalising his immediate thoughts and sounding ungrateful, clenching his teeth to quiet their chittering. Instead, he dwells on a thought; Mister Jinn had come looking for him.

Qui-Gon makes easy work of carrying Obi-Wan. Decades of hard labour hauling bags of grain and bales of cured hay benefiting the occasion. In the absence of his coat, he’s soaked through, and water blurs his vision, but he’s undeterred in his mission.

“H- how did you find me?” Obi-Wan stammers.

“A feeling,” Qui-Gon says simply. “You seem to have a predisposition for trouble, Master Kenobi.”

In truth, Qui-Gon grew troubled as the hour darkened and Obi-Wan failed to return home. And while he briefly entertained a despairing thought that the young man had forgotten their engagement, an instinct flared with warning. A sixth sense, he had come to describe it and rely on throughout his life, and it had cautioned him of impending misfortune.

He had waited by the road, watching the bend in hopes of seeing the man gallivanting around the corner. When a horse pulled cart trundled by, he inquired with the driver, another local farmer, if he’d seen anyone navigating the road from town. Qui-Gon’s frown deepened when he received an assured no.

The wind stirred, engaging fallen leaves in whirling pirouettes, tangling his loose hair. Qui-Gon’s seasoned eyes surveyed the foreboding sky and his gut instinct nudged him again. Without further hesitation he made the swift decision to retrieve his oil laden coat. If Obi-Wan had indeed initiated the return journey from town and forgone the main road, he had most likely cut across the McGregory estate and Pitman’s farm. Qui-Gon was not in the habit of using the shortcut, but he knew of it and was prepared to search all night, come rain and hail.

In the face of adversity, Qui-Gon navigated the torrential rain with unwavering perseverance. And as he trudged a grueling ascent, his fealty was rewarded when he discerned a dark smudge upon the hillside. His strides lengthened, making haste to alleviate the knot in his chest and confirm his suspicion.

There he found the befallen young man, waterlogged and shivering, colour drained from his complexion, and he swore a silent oath to see him safe. He weathers the conditions with stern determination, pausing once to refasten his hold. A murmur against Obi-Wan’s ear requests the young man secure an arm about Qui-Gon’s neck, and dare say Obi-Wan blushes at the implication.

Night has truly fallen when they reach the cottage. Obi-Wan assists to open the wooden door and without dally, Qui-Gon crosses the threshold into the adjoining parlor and lowers Obi-Wan into an armchair.

The fireplace smoulders and Qui-Gon quickly sets to work, stoking the fine ash to reveal remnants of dying embers from the morning's fire. He procures a candle from atop the mantlepiece and lights the wick to provide aiding light. Meticulously, kindling is arranged upon the glowing debris and life is breathed upon it to catch alight. Smoke begins to effuse from the cluster of dried twigs and pine cones when light is birthed from Qui-Gon’s efforts.

The flame is small, insufficient but it lures Obi-Wan to it with promise and he stares longingly. Exaggerated shadows stretch across the room all the while their faces bask in the glow of the concentrated light. Qui-Gon continues to feed the fire, encouraging its growth, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes and folds in on himself, desperate for warmth.

“It’s imperative you change. Lest you catch cold.” The baritone voice lures Obi-Wan’s eyes open and he peers at the man through heavy lashes. “With your permission I’ll retrieve you dry clothes.”

“What of yourself, Mister Jinn?”

Indeed, the man was in no better condition and Obi-Wan chastises himself for neglecting the wellbeing of his rescuer. Small bodies of water pooled about the parlor and Obi-Wan spares a regretful thought for his armchair, recently upholstered.

“I have weathered many storms. My concern is for your _sheltered sensibilities_.”

Obi-Wan all but gapes at Qui-Gon. It was not often he was rendered speechless and the glint of the man’s eyes confirms he savoured the small victory.

Obi-Wan recovers swiftly and retorts in a petulant tone, “I assure you that a little rain won’t see me perish from some trifling cold.”

“That I am not willing to risk,” Qui-Gon asserts, and lights another candle. He makes for the hallway, intent on his purpose when Obi-Wan beckons him.

“Mister Jinn,” Obi-Wan calls, “please see to whatever you need for yourself.”

Qui-Gon nods in acknowledgement and accompanied by the candles illumination, disappears down the house.

Obi-Wan secures the coat more tightly, the dry but cold house oppressive. However, little good it did, the very clothes he wore absorbing the warmth from his being.  
Thankfully Qui-Gon returns swiftly with a bundle of clothes and linen, a towel draped over his shoulders.

Obi-Wan takes them gratefully, noting the sleepwear and dressing gown among the selection of procured items. When he hesitates to change, Qui-Gon offers, “If you require privacy-"

“No!” Obi-Wan flushes and clears his throat, alarmed by outburst. “No, that’s quite alright.”

Qui-Gon nods, shadows giving illusion to upturned lips, and resumes his attention on the fire, adding a log for the flames consumption.

Obi-Wan can’t pinpoint if his reluctance originates from exposing himself to the frigid room, or exposing himself before the stoic man. Qui-Gon was an acquaintance, however fast to becoming a friend should he be so bold to admit it. There was no question of modesty. It is quite acceptable to change in the presence of the same sex. So he concludes that it was a matter of the cold.

Obi-Wan dares a cheating glance at the looming figure before the fire. Assured that Qui-Gon appears preoccupied, he tries to make quick work of stripping off the layers of heavy garments. The oil coat is draped over the back of the armchair as a courtesy while his clothes are mercilessly dumped on the floor. His cold fingers fumble with buttons and ties and suspenders.

Qui-Gon notes the small expressions of exertion and frustration, and turns to inquire how the young man fairs. But his attention is ensnared, first by the unruly wet hair, then lingering to marvel the beauty spot kissed upon a flushed cheek, transversing to warming lips shaped in vexation. The undershirt which is being wrestled from its tucked confinements hugs the lithe body, teasing hardened nipples.

Qui-Gon shies away, seeking light of absolution. The original query forgotten.

With all but his trousers discarded and outfitted with dry upper garments and sleeping gown, Obi-Wan hurries to wrap the provided quilt about his body and snuggles into the soft comfort. Wet trousers be damned. He quietly observes the weathered face of his companion, and as if drawn to the attention fixated upon his person, Qui-Gon turns to regard Obi-Wan.

Their mutual gaze holds and the world pauses in a sempiternal moment, beholden to no one.

Qui-Gon averts his eyes first, only to find trousers still defiantly fitted. He raises an eyebrow objectionally and Obi-Wan pointedly ignores it. The older man swallows a huff of laughter, amused by the display of stubbornness, and declines to press. Instead, he shifts to kneel before Obi-Wan.

“Now, let’s see this ankle, shall we.”

Large hands cradle the injured limb, and Obi-Wan watches with fascination as the dress shoe is removed with equal care. He cages a hiss behind his teeth as the sock is withdrawn, but Qui-Gon remains diligent in the task, sparing a soft apology. It reminds Obi-Wan of the care and attention he’d witnessed the farmer in handling his horse.

He had caught the man unsuspectingly, bent over the hind foot of his one and only horse, prying mud from the hoof with clinical precision. Hands splayed across the flank of the subdued beast, traveling the length of the long limb, assessing for abnormalities.

With the same attentiveness, the wet trousers are rolled up to expose the naked skin of Obi-Wan’s ankle, mildly coloured by bruising. Nothing escapes the critical examination, calloused hands searing the cooled skin with healing influence. A thumb caresses the swollen joint, and Obi-Wan shivers.

A contemplative hum resounds in Qui-Gon’s throat, and briefly spellbound, Obi-Wan looks at him expectantly.

“It is not broken, however moderately sprained. You’ll require bed rest for several days,” the farmer determines.

Obi-Wan doesn’t take too kindly to the suggestion.

“Several days? I can’t afford such luxury. I have work to do.”

“Nothing urgent that can’t be postponed,” Qui-Gon counters. “And I recall your woes for a lack of progress on your book. This strikes me as the perfect opportunity.”

“Well, yes,” Obi-Wan says, “but—”

“And I can maintain the care of certain necessities in your stead.”

“Mister Jinn, please, I won’t impose such-” But the man raises a hand to halt the passionate objection.

“The matter is resolved.” A cautioning gleam dares Obi-Wan to persist, and to Qui-Gon’s obvious satisfaction and amusement, the writer sits back and all but scowls.

Qui-Gon smooths away a smile before retrieving rags at Obi-Wan’s surly instruction. The ankle is secured in light compression and Qui-Gon advises against unnecessary mobilisation, and remarks that he will send word to the local doctor come morning. He receives a thin lipped reply. When he starts on the other foot, removing the shoe and sock, the surliness of the man relaxes, transfixed on the ministrations of his attentive neighbour.

With kind consideration, Qui-Gon arranges the discarded garments before the fire on a drying rack. They will require a thorough wash later but better they dry than reek of mildew. Satisfied with his efforts, Qui-Gon turns to Obi-Wan.

“Your trousers, please.” Obi-Wan gapes at Qui-Gon for a second time that evening, or third? He’s losing count.

Qui-Gon raises his brows for added effect, and Obi-Wan abruptly closes his mouth and turns cheek to disguise blossoming colour. It was absurd, he thinks. He shouldn’t react as he does, but man's presence is overwhelming. More so than it usually is. Perhaps he was feverish. But that logic validated Qui-Gon’s insistence. His jaw tenses and he inhales a steadying breath.

Reassembling his composure, Obi-Wan regards the man, hands fumbling with the fastening of his trousers.

“You have made it your mission to relieve me of my wears tonight, Mister Jinn. Some might question your motives.” He jests, of course, a futile effort to infuse levity into the situation and ignore the fluttering of his pulse. His companion however, appears to not take kindly to the innocent remark, his mask hardening.

Obi-Wan’s neck prickles, unnerved by the transition.

Qui-Gon’s presence commands the small space, silent authority radiating from his presence. But it extinguishes as quickly as a candle wick is snuffed of light. Yet he speaks with unquestionable conviction.

“Allow me to assure you that _you_ will never have to question my motives, for you will know them for what they are.”

The declaration thickens the air with ambivalent tension. Obi-Wan swallows thickly and Qui-Gon removes himself from the room.

It’s suddenly cold again and Obi-Wan fixates on the flames, seeking answers to shapeless questions. It was not his intention to offend the man, a poor joke ill timed, but he suspects it was not offense that drove Qui-Gon to leave.

Some time passes before Obi-Wan feels inclined to wriggle free of the damp trousers, and even more time before Qui-Gon returns. When he does, Obi-Wan chooses not to question the length of the man’s absence, still in possession of his pocket watch. He wouldn't know how to approach the topic. Instead, he watches as Qui-Gon fixes a pot above the fire, only to leave and return again with a tea pot and cups in his possession. Qui-Gon engages in a silent ritual as he prepares the tea, taking purchase of the fireplace brick outcrop.

Obi-Wan is unknowingly mesmerised by the refined delicacy in the tall man's habitual process.

When the tea is determined ready, a patterned porcelain cup is offered to Obi-Wan upon a saucer and a smile that reassures and assuages him of lingering apprehension. Obi-Wan accepts the gesture and returns a smile in kind. He cools the hot drink before taking a tentative sip, and closes his eyes, savouring the simple pleasure.

Obi-Wan’s satisfaction grants Qui-Gon to follow lead and sample the steaming brew. He hums with contentment and they find mutual comfort in silence.

A brass bed warmer is filled with roasting charcoal and fitted under the comforter of the master bed, and a candle burns at the bedside shrouding the room in a soft hue.

Qui-Gon treads quietly into the parlor. He presses the back of his hand to the slumbering man’s forehead, confident that he has escaped a fever. Obi-Wan stirs, murmuring incoherent nothingness and Qui-Gon smiles.

“Obi-Wan,” he whispers, drawing the man to wakefulness.

Fair lashes flutter open to reveal ocean blue depths.

Qui-Gon had never seen the ocean, only heard tales of an infinite expanding horizon of exquisite possibilities, but he knew with unequivocal certainty that it couldn’t surpass the beauty encapsulated before him.

“I fell asleep,” Obi-Wan says.

Qui-Gon chuckles. “Indeed you did.”

Obi-Wan shifts, feeling a muscle kink in his back. “What is the hour?”

”Time for you to retire. I must insist.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t object to the idea of his bed, still rousing from the awkward nap. He motions to stand up and Qui-Gon’s arm curls around his waist.

“If you will allow me,” Qui-Gon murmurs, staring down at him.

With thoughts of damsels and indignities absent of mind, Obi-Wan nods, wrapping an arm across the man's broad shoulders as he’s effortlessly lifted into the intimate embrace. There is no urgency in Qui-Gon’s movement, and Obi-Wan indulges, leaning into the chest. He can smell him, the aroma of earth and rain, and something else, a scent that can only be unique to the man.

He realises then how fortunate he was. If not for Qui-Gon, who wasn’t obligated to search for him, and who did so in such abysmal conditions, he dare not speculate what may have become of him. Obi-Wan owed him more than simple gratitude.

“I must apologise for the inconvenience of my actions, Mister Jinn. And my behaviour. How might I begin to make it up to you?”

He watches keenly, categorising the subtle expressions that slip through the mask of stoicism, and Obi-Wan wonders if this will become an unsavoury habit.

“That won’t be necessary, Master Kenobi.”

The tone suggests Qui-Gon won’t accept further pursuit of the topic, but his eyes betray a need, a provoked sobriety. And Obi-Wan’s stomach coils.

He’s set down on the edge of the bed and feels the immediate loss of heat, maneuvering beneath the insulated comforter, and pleasantly surprised to discover the warm gift.

“I will return in the morning,” Qui-Gon states, backing toward the doorway, intending to take his leave.

“Mister Jinn,” Obi-Wan calls, and the man halts, suspended by the breath of his name. Obi-Wan is at a loss of what he intended to say, only certain that he was compelled to delay the man, if not a moment longer. “Thank you.” A smile reinforcing his sincerity.

Qui-Gon's eyes soften and then inclines his head and departs. Obi-Wan listens to his receding presence, the open and close of the front door and envisions the wet trek toward the neighbouring property, the rain battering against the window.

He doesn’t know if it’s the prewarmed bed, his haggard constitution, or the comfort that only the prospect of seeing Mister Jinn on the morrow brings, but he's asleep within moments.

To be continued.

**Author's Note:**

> It won’t be for many days until Obi-Wan wonders what became of his bowler hat.


End file.
